Up close: Doors are no hurdle for Boulder County woman

Anne Shutan works on mahogany doors that now grace the entrance of the library in the new Ralph L. Carr Judicial Center in downtown Denver.
(Lewis Geyer/Longmont Times-Call)

Maybe the quote by late singer Jim Morrison sums it up: "There are things known and things unknown and in between are the doors."

In this story, the thing known was an 80-year-old master from Holland named Jan DeSwart.

The thing unknown was the then-20-something furniture-maker, Anne Shutan.

And the in between -- the point of simultaneous connection and transition -- was the doors. Doors like you've never seen before. Liquid trees. Wooden waterfalls. Artistic gateways, trees turned inside out, literally.

It was 1985.

"I have finally found someone I can share my secrets with." The old man grabbed Shutan's shoulder. Then: "Come," with his accent, a cigar balancing on his lips.

The front door that Anne Shutan built for her home bears a resemblance to the doors she made for the Ralph L. Carr Judicial Center in Denver. (Lewis Geyer/Longmont Times-Call)

Shutan, a Boulder County-based artist, remembers every detail of the moment that would carve out the rest of her life. She had been in Los Angeles, marketing her furniture, when an interior designer said she had someone Shutan needed to meet.

Without this moment, without these secrets, hundreds of sculptures and handcrafted, elaborate doors would not have been born. Most recently and prominently, two 81/2-foot tall mahogany doors marking the entrance of the library in the new Ralph L. Carr Judicial Center in downtown Denver.

Everything changed when Shutan stepped on DeSwart's land.

"As I walked into his Pasadena studio on the hill, his garden of sculptures and home, I'm tearing, literally, thinking even if I never meet him, my life is changed," Shutan says. "Just seeing these -- how did he make that hard medium move like that? There was a giggle in every piece."

DeSwart flipped through Shutan's portfolio of furniture and read it like her palm.

"I can tell that you can see." He invited her to move from Colorado to California and be his apprentice. "I will teach you to use the band saw like a pencil."

Anne Shutan can turn common wood into doors that are works of art.
(Lewis Geyer/Longmont Times-Call)

"Immediately, we were like a school of fish," Shutan says. "Exactly 50 years and one day apart."

DeSwart had suffered a stroke, so he could not move the entire left side of his body; Shutan seamlessly became his left hand, for two years.

"With technology and computers, there's just not the apprentice-master relationship anymore," Shutan says. "And then, a man and woman in wood -- I don't even know of another one."

Every morning at 8 a.m., she met the old man in front of his shop, where he would sit, smoking little Swedish cigars, talking about life. And then, a light bulb.

DeSwart would suddenly stop, push his glasses on top of his head and rise.

"Annie. Come here."

He would lead her to the band saw. She would stand to the side and watch, as he pulled out a square piece of wood.

"What is he going to do?" She never knew.

He would begin cutting a form, flowing and unpredictable, the wood melding under the blade like clay. Then -- he stopped. Pushed his glasses back onto his head. Pulled out his cigar. Looked her square in the eyes.

"Annie, if you ever have the choice of going with the mystery or the obvious, go with the mystery."

She promised.

The details

What instruments does Anne Shutan use to make her doors? Her main tool is a large band saw from the '50s.

What materials does she use? Mostly mahogany, because it is stable. She also has used other hardwoods, like cherry, walnut and teak. She handpicks each piece of wood.

How much does a door cost? Anywhere from $6,500 to $20,000, depending on size, curves, inlays, location.

How long does it take to make a door? Two to four months.

How does she come up with the designs? Each door is unique. She creates designs by working with the clients and also by spending time in the house.

How many doors has she made? Dozens. She made seven in 2012 alone.

Who buys the doors? People across the country, including many residents in Boulder County.

Where does she make the doors? In her at-home studio in Boulder County.

One day, the same interior designer who had first introduced them asked DeSwart to make a door for a family in Malibu. He turned down the job. On a limb, Shutan submitted 10 designs. The designer liked one.

"I'm doing the door," she told DeSwart.

His faced paled with anxiety. He was so worried that he asked her to not talk to him about it.

The door cost $12,000 -- which is about the average cost of one of Shutan's doors today.

The day of the reveal, the Malibu family held a door-hanging ceremony. It seemed everyone from the community was there. DeSwart and his wife came, too. Shutan's heart raced as they brought the door to the hinges. It fit perfectly. DeSwart's face glowed.

"He never looked more alive than at the door hanging," Shutan remembers.

The next day, he visited Shutan at her house. His eyes looked so relaxed.

"Annie, you don't need me anymore."

She feared what he was saying. She grabbed his shoulders and repeated, "Don't say that. Don't say that." What would she do without his guidance? She didn't feel ready. Not yet.

Four days later, DeSwart went into a coma.

As Shutan sat at his bedside clutching his hand, she wanted to beg him not to go. Instead, she swallowed her apprehension.

"I want you to know that you can go," she told him. "I'll take it from here."

He squeezed her hand.

He died the next day.

The top of Shutan's website bears the message: "Follow your bliss and the universe will open doors where there were only walls." -- Joseph Campbell

Shutan believes it's true.

She stands in the entrance of her house, surrounded by dozens of to-scale models of doors she has crafted during the past 30 years. Her own front door looks like a rippling pond of wood, compiled out of leftover planks from her other commissioned doors.

There's something about wood that warms her, she says. Even feng shui acknowledges that. Maybe it's because wood is one of the only natural mediums that stems from a living object.

"Part of the warmth is it's still breathing, because of the cellular structure; there are open grains," Shutan says. "It breathes. Even on their hinges, the doors still move like an eighth of an inch."

The wood is no longer growing, but it is not exactly dead. It is something else. Something connecting the two worlds. Something in between.

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